


Shades of Green

by Cinaed



Category: CSI: Las Vegas
Genre: Backstory, Developing Relationship, Friendship, Interior Decorating, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-12
Updated: 2006-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Hodges really, really hates people. He despises the whole lot of them, and isn't above believing in the broad generalization that "mankind is inherently flawed (in other words, stupid)."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shades of Green

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for "$35K O.B.O."

 

_"Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;_  
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see  
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings  
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

_In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song_  
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong  
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside  
And hymns in the cozy parlor, the tinkling piano our guide.

_So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor_  
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamor  
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast  
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past."

~ "Piano" by D.H. Lawrence

 

* * *

 

David Hodges really, really hates people. He despises the whole lot of them, and isn’t above believing in the broad generalization that "mankind is inherently flawed (in other words, stupid)." That doesn’t keep him from hating some people more than others; for example, this nameless man. The nameless man, who has been arguing with him for what seems like eternity, is on his top ten list of People David Hodges Is Contemplating Murdering. 

"We don’t move furniture," the man says with another eye roll, as though _David_ is the idiot here. "We just rip up carpet." He’s made this point about thirty times in the past two hours; apparently, David is supposed to just sit back and accept it. 

"How am I supposed to move my furniture?" David demands, waving a hand at said-furniture that the man refuses to move from the room. "I don’t exactly have some magical spinach handy. I _can’t_ move it myself." 

The man shrugs, unconcerned by David’s logic. "Get someone to help you." 

David pretends to consider that. "Have someone help me move my furniture? Hmm…I wonder who I could ask. Oh, I know! Maybe _the men I am paying to rip up my carpet_." The last part is heavily doused with sarcasm, with a venomous glare added in for good measure. 

Not that the three strangers currently standing in his living room are particularly Herculean-looking; David suspects that they’ll fail at moving the couch, even if they finally listen to reason and start moving his furniture. The man’s two assistants -- who have been watching the argument, their boredom obvious -- in all actuality look like a strong breeze could knock them over. One is a tiny Latino man who probably just barely hits five-three, with jeans that have seen better days and a sleeveless T-shirt, and is probably on his fifth wad of bubble gum by now. The other is an incredibly skinny teenager who reminds him of Greg with his horrible orange shirt, attempted cool hair that is dyed blue at the tips, and a CD player that is currently blasting something which sounds like Black Sabbath. 

Their boss isn’t particularly awe-inspiring himself -- he’s around fifty, with peppery gray hair, an obvious potbelly, and an apathetic expression that seems permanently engraved on his face. The man does yet another eye roll, and repeats, "We don’t move furniture." He turns and snorts. "Besides, that thing’s a piece of junk, anyway." 

And in that instant, the man leaps to Number One on David’s list of People David Hodges _Will_ Kill at the Earliest Opportunity, because the "piece of junk" the man is looking at was his mother’s most cherished possession -- the piano. "Excuse me?" David’s voice is like ice, and at least the man’s assistants have enough sense to look a little wary, the Latino temporarily abandoning his gum-chewing and the teenager pausing his music. "A piece of _junk_?" 

The man shrugs. "Well, yeah. I mean, look at some of these nicks, and the keys need replacing." Apparently oblivious to the danger he’s in, he reaches out and places his hand on the top of the piano, chuckling. "It looks like it’s been rolled down a hill--" 

David sees red, and wonders if he could call the murder a crime of passion and get away with it. He stares at the grubby hand (the man has _dirt_ under his fingernails, for mercy’s sake) that is contaminating his piano, and suspects he could. "Take your damn hand off my piano," he snarls, "and get out. I’ll find someone else to do the job." 

He receives a frown instead of obedience, and the man’s hand stays where it is. "Look, man, we’re real good at ripping up carpet. You just have to find someone to move your furniture before we can." When David just glares, the man shakes his head. "I bet you can even find someone to haul this off to the city dump for only twenty bucks or so." 

A minute or so later, the man finally seems to realize he’s treading dangerous waters, and finally, _finally_ retracts his grimy hand. Of course, that could be because David is currently waving the biggest butcher knife he has in the man’s face and ordering him out of his house. The other two disappear at first sight of the knife, so it is only the man who David has to chase out the front door. 

"You’re crazy!" the man shouts at him before fleeing down the driveway to his truck. 

David just keeps waving the butcher knife until the man screeches out of his driveway and speeds away, and the tech feels extreme satisfaction as he slams the door shut. Then the fact that he has just sent the workers who were supposed to rip up his carpet fleeing in all directions actually sinks in, and he slumps against the door. Wonderful. What is he going to do now? And it was going to be such a _good_ day, too. 

He looks around, frowning. When he had bought the modest, one-story house, he had thought it _almost_ perfect. It was small but had everything David needed: a kitchen, dining room, living room, bathroom, and two bedrooms (one of which he was going to turn into a miniature library). What’s more, none of the rooms seemed cramped, and the living room could almost be called spacious. The only thing he disliked was the carpet in the living room, which was a lima bean green that made David’s lips curl in distaste every time he looked at it, despite the realtor’s insistence that it was "excellent quality carpeting." He had survived the carpet for four months before finally giving into the inevitable and finding someone who would rip out the carpet for him. 

And now he’s chased that someone out the door. Perfect. He is still scowling when the doorbell rings -- two simple dings (Greg’s housewarming present of a doorbell that plays ‘Ding, Dong, the Witch is Dead’ is in a closet, and one day he suspects he’ll set it up just to watch the expression of the next person to frequent his doorstep). Unless it’s the man coming back to grovel, David has no use for visitors, and so it is only after the person at the door waits a polite minute before ringing the bell again that David puts on his most disagreeable scowl and opens the door with a cold, "What do you want?" 

And good God, Bobby Dawson and Nick Stokes are on his doorstep. Wait, scratch the good God. This is obviously Lucifer’s doing. 

Bobby smiles, unperturbed at his tone and expression, and says, "Well, we figured the guys would be done with the carpet by now and that ya’d wanna celebrate the demise of the split pea-colored carpet." 

"Well, you’re wrong on both counts," David informs him testily. He decides to focus his glower on Nick, since unfortunately Bobby’s been around him long enough to become somewhat immune. Nick, however, has not, having only begun to really interact with the techs outside of work about three months ago, when he had finally gotten the stick the size of Texas out of his ass and begun dating Bobby. 

Nick, however, is too busy peering over his shoulder to truly appreciate the viciousness directed his way. As David glares, the Texan’s brow furrows in confusion. "Why isn’t your carpet gone?" Ah, he’s _noticed_ the carpet…such brilliant CSI skills. 

"Apparently they ‘don’t move furniture.’ Instead, they insult your furniture and refuse to do work," David mutters, bitterness coloring his words. "So, no celebration. Not that you two would be allowed inside my house _for_ a celebration." When Nick and Bobby just smile, he glares. "Now leave." It’s only then he remembers he’s still holding the butcher knife, and ponders if he could get away with pointing it at them. Probably not. Either Nick would go all Texas Ranger and kick his ass, or Bobby would shoot him. 

It’s then of course that Bobby notices the butcher knife, and raises an inquisitive eyebrow. 

"They were insulting my furniture," David repeats, and really, Bobby’s known him long enough to realize that explains _everything_. The duo doesn’t move, and he rolls his eyes. "Leave." Needless to say, he is not amused when Nick grabs the knife from him and the two Southerners shoulder their way past him. He turns and glares. "I think you two need to read the dictionary. Under the letter L, there’s a word, spelled L-E-A-V-E. In this situation, it means to _not_ enter someone’s house--" 

"Am I late?" 

David slowly closes his eyes. Hell no. He doesn’t dare turn back towards the driveway, even as he snaps, "Go away, Archie." 

"But I brought potato chips," Archie Johnson informs him cheerfully, as though potato chips are the junk food of the gods and therefore insure absolution. "Plain, Sour Cream ‘n Onion, Salt ‘n Vinegar, Barbecue, and -- hey, why is your carpet still here?" 

David ignores the question in favor of a more pressing one of his own. "Did everyone get together and decide I was having a party without my knowledge?" At Archie’s broad grin, he sighs and steps aside to let the A/V tech inside, giving into the inevitable. "Of course you did." 

"Your fault for not havin’ a house-warming party," Bobby informs him cheerfully. "Well, more so your fault for lockin’ us all out of your house when we showed up for the party. That really pissed off Jacqui. Ya had to know she’d get revenge." He pauses, and adds, "Oh, and speakin’ of Jacq, she’ll be here in about ten minutes. She’s bringin’ alcohol." 

"Enough to kill myself with, I hope," David mutters, and watches as Archie goes into the kitchen to deposit the bags of chips. He raises an eyebrow. "So, Stokes, you’re crashing a lab rat party and you didn’t bring anything as a bribe?" 

Nick just grins. "Hey, I’m the designated beer runner if Jacq’s supply runs low." 

"If?" David and Bobby mutter as one and David refuses to smile even the tiniest bit, even if Nick’s naïveté is laughable, and Bobby adds gently, "Ya mean when, Nick." 

While the Texan looks confused, David shoots Archie (who has reemerged from the kitchen) a deeply suspicious look, because no one in the lab rat group likes plain potato chips, and Nick doesn’t look like a ‘I take my potato chips plain’ sort of guy. "Who’s coming who eats plain potato chips?" 

Archie frowns and looks a little guilty. "Um, well, I was telling Greg about the party, and, well, Henry popped up, and, uh, so he might be coming…." 

If looks could kill, Archie would have been a puddle of goo; as it was, he became number one on the list of People David Hodges _Will_ Kill at the Earliest Opportunity (the nameless carpet guy is a close second, but for the moment Archie is at the top of the list). 

"_Henry_?" David almost spits out the name, and ignores Nick’s bemused gaze in favor of glowering at Archie. "You invited _Henry_? That -- that…sycophant? That pathetic little…get out." He turns the glare on all three of them. "I’m not having this party." 

Bobby rolls his eyes, unaffected by David’s temper tantrum. "I’d like ya t’try tellin’ Jacqui that. And Henry really is a nice guy, ya know. Jes’ because ya get pissy that he has a crush on Greg--" 

"He worships the ground Greg walks on. It’s disgusting," David says flatly, and intensifies his glare as Nick’s expression suddenly shifts to one of understanding. "And there is no party. We’re supposed to be celebrating my emancipation from the carpet, and, gee, look at that. I’ve still got the carpet." He waves a hand at the lima bean carpet. 

Bobby shrugs and smiles one of his infuriatingly good-natured grins. "We’ll just have a furniture movin’ party then, so ya _can_ be freed from your carpet." 

…Damn. Why did the Georgian have to be _clever_? Biting back a frustrated growl, David throws up his hands. "Fine. But if I should _accidentally_ find some acid under my couch and_accidentally_ pour it all over Henry, it will not be my fault." 

"Understood." Archie salutes him and smiles cheekily, and David grumpily goes to find some dip and to preheat the oven for the pizzas he has in his freezer. 

*

Two hours later, David announces, setting aside his third can of beer, "This is the most pathetic furniture moving party I’ve ever been to. I mean, _you_ two brought more chairs _into_ the living room." Leaning against the piano (he’s been sitting there as a watchdog ever since Henry Andrews arrived about an hour ago and tried to play Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star), he points an accusing finger at Ronnie Litre and Wendy Simms, who both roll their eyes and ignore him, Ronnie in favor of finishing off the bag of Sour Cream ‘n Onion and Wendy in favor of popping open another can of beer. 

Jacqui Franco shoots a lazy grin in his direction and wiggles her toes at him, having long-since kicked off her shoes. "We’ll move your furniture later, David." She sinks deeper into the couch, and adds, "Once the alcohol’s gone." 

He snorts at that. "Which means never, because Stokes has already gone on one beer run, and you’ll send him on another as soon as this latest supply starts to run low." 

"He’s got a point," Greg Sanders comments, and David resists the urge to shoot a death glare as the CSI keeps up his attempt at balancing a beer can on Henry’s head. Did the two have to flirt so _obviously_? "The alcohol will never be gone." 

"Which means you all will never leave," David laments, "and I will never get rid of this ugly carpet." For a moment he struggles against the instinct to be petty, and then gives into the temptation (the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it, after all), tossing a crumpled-up napkin at Greg and smirking as the beer can tumbles off Henry’s head. "I need better friends." 

Bobby chuckles from his position with Nick on the loveseat and comments, "Beggars can’t be choosers." He manages to avoid the napkin David attempts to pelt him with, but the trace technician gets _some_ satisfaction as it bounces off Nick’s shoulder. 

After a moment of glowering at the group, all of whom are drinking their beers, munching on slices of pizza (or in Greg’s case, licking the grease off his fingers like some sort of barbarian, a gesture that really should be more disgusting and less hot, honestly), David sighs and slumps. "You guys are never going to leave, are you?" 

"Nope," Jacqui says, and as smugness colors her face and expression, David is reminded of why he really, really hates people. 

*

For a moment after he rouses from an odd dream about Nick on his fifth or sixth beer run informing the horrified group that there is no beer left in the world, David isn’t quite sure why he’s woken up. Then he hears the uncertain, stilted strains of Chopsticks coming from his living room. 

There is a moment of pure, all-consuming rage as he immediately thinks of Henry, and then he remembers that Henry went home hours ago. So had Ronnie, after his wife had called him to dryly remind him that it was two in the morning. Wendy had excused herself too, after a call from Julie wondering why she wasn’t home yet. 

So that leaves either Bobby, Nick, Jacqui, Archie, or Greg as the atrocious piano player. 

He is frowning as he emerges from his bedroom and walks down the hallway to the living room. Halfway down the hall, he realizes it can’t be Nick or Bobby -- the two are curled up in the hallway, looking so adorable that David is tempted to kick them. (He resists this particular temptation, though only because he suspects the two Southerners wouldn’t have any qualms about kicking his ass, and instead he carefully steps over their sleeping forms.) 

One glance into the bathroom confirms it isn’t Archie either -- the Trekkie is sound asleep in the bathtub, using David’s shower curtain as a makeshift blanket. Really, were his friends _squatters_ or something? 

David finally gets into the living room (now almost barren of furniture -- there was really just the couch and the piano left to move), and immediately spots Jacqui, who is sleeping on the couch, legs dangling over the armrest, and a beer can still resting on her stomach. He eyes the beer can with interest, wondering if it is full or empty, and then turns to raise an eyebrow towards Greg. 

The CSI smiles sheepishly, and the broken, wobbly strains of Chopsticks stop as Greg retracts his hands from the keys. "Sorry," he says in a low whisper, obviously trying not to wake Jacqui. "My cousin taught me Chopsticks when I was six or so. I was trying to see if I remembered it." 

"You don’t," David informs him, and Greg wrinkles his nose and says, "I figured." 

Shaking his head, David sits down on the piano bench next to the other man, steadfastly ignoring the warmth radiating off Greg’s frame, and says, "Watch my hands." Sensing rather than actually seeing Greg’s puzzled look, he rolls his eyes and begins to play the part of Chopsticks that the other man was attempting. 

When he stops and drops his hands into his lap, there is silence for a moment, and then Greg mutters in a tone of absolute shock, "You can really play." 

David snorts. "What, did you think I kept the piano around because I thought it made me look sophisticated?" Suspecting that Greg had thought exactly that, he snorts again and begins to play one of his favorite pieces, Mozart’s Piano Sonata. Music always relaxes him, and relaxing always makes him loquacious, and this time is no exception. After a moment, he explains, watching his fingers dance across the keys, "My mother was an aficionado of music, and she stressed its importance to all her sons. Said it gave us character. Luke learned to play the violin, Mark the flute, and I, well, obviously I learned the piano." Along with the French horn, viola, and piccolo, but David wasn’t about to mention that. He’d only really enjoyed the piano, anyway. 

He chuckles suddenly. "Poor Mark. He hated the flute so much. He wanted to play the drums, you see, but Mother said she wouldn’t have a hippie for a son. You see, she had _plans_ for each of us. Luke was the oldest, so he was going to be the politician of the family, the next Roosevelt. Mark was the middle boy, so he was going to be the scientist, the next Oppenheimer. And me, well, I was the youngest. I was going to be the next Mozart or Beethoven." He looks down at his hands dancing across the keys, and feels a bitter little smile cross his lips. The next Mozart, indeed. Trying to smooth his expression into a neutral look, he begins to play Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, and watches from the corner of his eye as Greg grins. 

"What did they really grow up to be?" the CSI asks after a moment of nothing but music. 

David shrugs. "Luke ran away when he was seventeen, joined the army, and married a Filipino girl while overseas. They own a small string of restaurants down the West Coast and have three kids. Their oldest is almost nineteen." He pauses, and just listens to Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star for a moment before he continues. "Mark got into drugs for a while in college, served a couple of years on possession and intent-to-sell charges. Last I heard, he was in Philadelphia, working as a cab driver." 

He hits a wrong note and scowls at the keys, even as he remembers Mark’s dull, defeated eyes and his resentful, ‘I guess _you_ became the scientist instead of me, Dave.’ 

Greg shakes his head. "Man, that didn’t work out at all like she’d planned." 

"No," David says shortly, and pulls his hands away from the keys, no longer in the mood to be loquacious. He’s not about to tell Greg about the years spent secretly juggling two majors, one of Music and the other of Biology, and the knock-down, drag-out fight he’d had with his mother when he’d announced he was going for a Master’s degree in Biology rather than Music, about the five years of sullen silence that had followed, until she had called him out of the blue, only to tell him that his father was dead and that she expected him to be at the funeral. 

He blinks as Greg leans forward and starts punching out an awkward attempt of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. For a moment, he just watches Greg’s intense look of concentration, the rapt glint in those brown eyes, and then he shakes his head and covers Greg’s hands with his own, ignoring Greg’s startled look. "Your movements are too jerky and you’re putting too much force behind your fingers. You have to be gentle and smooth…like this." 

"Gentle and smooth," Greg mutters after a moment, grinning lopsidedly as David guides his fingers across the keys. After a few tries, the sound becomes smoother, brighter, and David relaxes, darker memories fading in the wake of the bright, tinkling song and the feel of Greg’s hands beneath his. He is still relaxed as Greg says, "Hey, David?" 

David glances at the younger man, and Greg is grinning a little too brightly, his eyes almost shining, and he raises an eyebrow, an automatic smirk rising to his lips. 

"Think you could, uh, give me a couple lessons?" 

He blinks again, and tries not to be hyper-aware of the fact that his hands are still covering Greg’s, or that Greg is looking a little too intently at him, because those are dangerous, hopeful thoughts, and hope has always led David to disaster. After a moment, he manages a shrug, and says, voice as casual as he can make it, "Sure. You have the hands for the piano." 

Greg tilts his head at that. "Hands for the piano?" he echoes. 

David nods, and lightly grasps Greg’s wrists, turning the other man’s hands palm upward. (He steadfastly ignores the fact that he can feel the gentle cadence of Greg’s pulse.) "See? Long slender fingers. That will help you hit each note. Musician’s hands." 

"Works well for scientists too," Greg observes with the same over-bright grin, and David can’t help but grin wryly at that, having often suspected himself of having one hand fated to be a musician’s and the other to be a scientist’s. 

It’s then he realizes he should probably let go of Greg’s wrists, and almost regretfully does so, instantly missing the soft fluttering of the other man’s pulse beneath his fingers. He clears his throat. "I thought all parents coerced their child into music. Yours didn’t?" 

"They let me do what I wanted," Greg says with a casual shrug, as if he doesn’t realize how lucky he is to have had such a laid-back childhood. "So I played the drums, started the stereotypical high school rock band, that sorta thing." He grins. "It crashed and burned, of course. No one wanted to listen to a band whose drummer was the captain of the chess squad." He pauses, looking thoughtful. "I think my mom still has my first drum set, actually." 

David can’t quite keep the bitter smile from touching his lips again at that or the slight stirring of envy that pinches at his stomach. His mother had sold all his instruments after their argument over his Master’s program, but had kept the piano, because it had been her mother’s. When she died, she left him the piano in her will. (To this day, David isn’t certain whether the gesture was one of ultimate forgiveness or a final reminder of how he had failed her. He suspects the latter, but then, David has always been a pessimist.) 

"You know, I’m going to kind of miss your carpet," Greg says, interrupting his thoughts, and David turns to openly stare, knowing his expression is one of incredulity. The other man looks almost defensive. "Well, my favorite aunt has this type of carpet, has since before I was born. She calls it avocado green though, not lima bean or split pea or whatever you and Bobby call it. But yeah, it brings back good memories." Greg smiles a little wistfully. "She lives in Oregon, so I don’t get to see her that often. Just at family reunions." 

David rolls his eyes, not so much at Greg’s sentimentality but more at the fact that Greg _likes_ the carpet. 

"If you like the carpet so much, I’ll tell the workers to roll it up and _you_ can have it," he informs the other man dryly, and probably shouldn’t be surprised when Greg rolls his eyes and gives him the finger (he isn’t surprised, not really). "This does, however, bring up a question I’ve been meaning to ask you: are you colorblind? Because if some genetic mishap is the reason for your atrocious fashion sense, then I’ll apologize for mocking you all those times for something that you couldn’t possibly control--" 

"God, you’re an ass," Greg says, but he’s grinning and laughing when he says it, and David knows not to take offense. That doesn’t stop him from being startled with Greg pokes him in the chest and says, "And I’ll have you know that my genes are perfect." 

David blinks. What was Greg, in elementary school? He looks down at his T-shirt-covered chest, where Greg’s finger is still resting, and raises an eyebrow. "You keep telling yourself that, Sanders." 

"You have excellent genes too…which doesn’t explain your asshole attitude, but that might be nurture," Greg comments, and David blinks again. "Though I’m more on the side of nature than nurture in that whole debate, myself. You know I--"

"You don’t know if I have excellent genes," David interrupts before Greg can launch into some pointless story, rolling his eyes. "The last time I studied my DNA was in college, and unless you went on some mad quest to find my professor--" He stops, because Greg is suddenly fidgeting and looking for all the world like a five-year-old whose hand has been caught in the cookie jar. David feels his eyebrows hit his hairline. "You’ve actually studied my genes." There are a good dozen questions he can ask, as Greg looks guilty, but the first that tumbles from his lips is, "_How_?" 

Greg squirms for a moment. "All I had to do was snag a pen you were chewing on one day. It was really easy, actually. But look--"

But the next question is already falling from his lips. "_Why_?" 

The other man suddenly finds the keyboard fascinating, studying it intently and not looking at David. "Was just curious. You know, like Grissom and his blood." 

"At least Grissom _tells_ people he wants their blood," David comments, and really, he should probably be annoyed at this invasion of privacy, but Greg looks so guilty that he’s amused instead. "Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to study a man’s genetic makeup without his permission?" 

"Shut up," Greg whines, and David watches with interest as his face and even his ears turn bright red. Those brown eyes flicker towards him and then away and Greg mutters, "I told you, I was _curious_." 

"Curious about my genes," David says incredulously, because what could be fascinating about his DNA? As Greg squirms and stares down at the keys of the piano again, the trace tech smirks and bumps shoulders with the other man to get Greg to look at him. As soon as Greg looks up, he raises an eyebrow and drawls, "So, are my genes of utmost perfection? And do I get to tell someone like Archie or Jacqui they have horrible genes, because I have to admit, that would make my day." 

Greg rolls his eyes, and the embarrassment is gradually being replaced by annoyance. "Your genes are _nice_," he says, sounding as if he thoroughly regrets calling David’s genes excellent (and he should regret it, because David will never let him live this down). "And I dunno. I haven’t studied Archie or Jacqui’s DNA." 

"Then whose DNA have you looked at, besides mine?" David pauses, and groans. "And I don’t want to know about Nick’s. I’m sure his DNA is a level _above_ perfection." When Greg doesn’t immediately answer, David repeats, "Whose DNA have you looked at?" 

Greg looks away, back to being embarrassed, and mutters something that David is sure he’s heard wrong, because why would Greg look at only _David’s_ DNA? 

David blinks, and says cautiously, with the feeling that he’s suddenly toeing some invisible, dangerous line, "I think I heard you wrong. Just mine?" Greg doesn’t answer, and David suspects that maybe asking that question has crossed the invisible line without his knowledge. He swallows, mouth suddenly a little dry, and figures that if he’s already crossed the line, why not make it a few feet over rather than a few inches. 

He somehow coaxes a slight smirk onto his face, and clears his throat. "While I appreciate that you find me fascinating and want to see what makes me tick, Greg, studying my DNA is not going to help you understand the inner workings of yours truly." 

Greg looks up at that, something in his brown eyes akin to relief (what, did the man think David was going to throw him out of the house?), and after a moment, manages a grin that is a little wobbly around the edges. "What will, then?" 

David pauses, as though considering the various methods, and finally says, "Piano lessons."

The corners of Greg’s smile firm at that, and his grin grows wider, and then Greg says, "Piano lessons sound good to me." He hesitates, and then reaches out and begins to play Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star again. It’s still a little uncertain, though far smoother than his earlier attempts, but David covers the other man’s hands anyway. 

"Once you’ve mastered Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, you’re not allowed to play it ever again, by the way," he informs the CSI, and at Greg’s raised eyebrow, rolls his eyes. "It’s so ridiculously _sappy_." 

"What are you going to teach me then?" Greg asks with an amused note creeping into his voice. "Mozart and Beethoven?" He chuckles and shakes his head. "That’ll take _years_." 

David swallows a little, and throws himself a few miles past that invisible line as he nods and says, "Good." 

Greg’s expression is one of pure astonishment, and he opens his mouth to respond, but then they both turn as loud profanity suddenly fills the air, and they both twist on the piano seat to watch Jacqui curse in English, French, and a little bit of German as she rubs furiously at the beer stains on her pants. (The can had been full then.) 

She narrows her eyes at the smirk on David’s face, and grits out, “Not a fucking _word_.” As he offers her an innocent expression she mutters something nasty in German that he chooses benevolently to ignore, and jumps to her feet. As she stalks from the living room, David calls after her, “Archie’s in the bathtub!” 

Greg blinks, and David shakes his head and explains, “Squatters.” 

As they hear Nick asking, his Texan accent thickened by sleep, what was going on, Greg grins and leans a little closer to David, close enough that David’s breath catches in his throat. 

“Years sounds good to me too,” Greg says quietly.

In the back of his mind, as he sits there on the bench with Greg’s hands resting lightly under his and Greg’s mouth hovering just a breath away, David admits that while he really, really hates people and isn’t above believing in the broad generalization that “mankind is inherently flawed (in other words, stupid),” there are some people that he tolerates, and there are even some people he might actually, sort of enjoy the company of. 

 


End file.
